Cabaret time
 

The two events I am about to relate were certainly aviation close calls so in that respect they qualify for this forum. However the stories offer no information that could possibly be of use to other aviators so I thought three times about posting them. Anyhow here goes.

When something happens in this life which cannot be explained by ‘normal’ analysis then it is usually termed ‘para-normal’. My attitude to the para-normal is that it is the height of arrogance on our part to deny that something could happen just because we can’t explain it. However I realise not everyone shares that view.

The first event goes back to the late 50s just after I had got my wings on the Vampire T11 and when I was a new student on the Hunter 4 OCU at Chivenor. Because the two seat Hunter 7 was yet to happen we were given a dual Vampire T11 instrument ride with an instructor, then a dual sector recce where “sir” pointed out local area features and diversions. We then did a solo T11 sector recce before being fired off in the Hunter. I was briefed for my solo sector recce and told to be back in the overhead at 10,000ft with 1000lb of fuel to do a QGH (controlled descent through cloud). For a QGH one was given R/T steers to base and when the approach controller saw your bearing flick round on his radio direction finder screen (no radar in those days) he gave you an outbound heading to start the descent. As I reached the overhead the fuel gauge read exactly 1000lb. “What an ace you are” went through my head. Then as the controller said “check again for overhead” I saw the gauge move smartly almost to zero. Now gauge failure was not that uncommon on the T11 and pre wings I had a gauge go to zero on a dual sortie just after take-off. On that occasion when I pointed this out to my “sir” he said that we either had a massive fuel leak or a gauge failure “…and we shall know which in a moment Farley so carry on with the climb”. At the top of the climb he said “We will do 40 minutes instead of the usual 50 just to be on the safe side”. So I knew about fuel gauge failures.

Now for the point of this story. When I saw the fuel gauge collapse at the start of the QGH I had what I can only describe as a totally overwhelming sensation that the engine was about to stop. It was so overwhelming that I closed the throttle, called “Over to tower” to the surprised approach controller and spiralled steeply down through the cloud. I broke out on the downwind leg among several Hunters going about their normal business and turned tight onto finals calling that I was “three greens short”. Not surprisingly this unannounced arrival on finals resulted in several reds being fired from the caravan, but despite this I continued and threw it on the runway passing a poor bloke taking off in an Anson in the process.

In dispersal the refuellers arrived as I climbed out and went to the line hut to sign in. On my way back to the crew room I asked them how much they had put in. I can still see the expression on the lad’s face when he replied “We have put in 328 gallons and it’s not full yet”. The tank capacity was 330.

Back in the offices of course all hell had broken loose on account of my arrival behaviour and I was quickly bounced up the chain of command. My description of the gauge behaviour as a reason for the mayhem seemingly cutting no ice. The only reason I continued on the course was because the next day a signal came in not to refuel T11s in the rain because it could cause some of the new capacitance gauges (introduced to replace the older ones that kept failing) to over-read in mid-range. Mine had the mod and was refuelled in the rain before my trip.

Some fifteen years later, out of the blue and with no abnormal cockpit indications, I again suddenly had a totally overwhelming sensation that my engine was about to stop. This time I was in a Harrier and doing some conventional manoeuvres, prior to the V/STOL stuff, during what was an important overseas sales demonstration.

It was a lovely blue sky day so the marketeers had asked me to include a vertical zoom from a high speed pass until I was nearly out of sight - not a problem of course. However to come back down for the V/STOL I decided to put the gear and full flap down and do a very steep and prolonged noisy slow descent above the airfield in full reverse thrust. Since no other fighter could descend very nose down without building up speed I figured this would make a point! It was during this descent that I got that feeling again. My reaction to the sensation was to immediately close the throttle, abandon the demo and roll the thing onto the runway. The marketeers were not happy.

Later, back in the UK, I went and saw the fuel system designers and told them about the prolonged nose down manoeuvre I had been doing. Their response was that it would have stopped all fuel transfer to the booster pump tanks and the engine would have stopped after some 30 – 40 seconds of such prolonged nose down.

So what is the explanation for these overwhelming feelings that led me to such extreme actions? All I can offer is that a few months before the first story I was out with my girlfriend in Holyhead when she said that her parents ran “spooks evenings” and that the night before “Henry” had “come through” saying that he had seen her out with me and to say that he would look after me. I asked who Henry was and was told that he was a decorated WWI pilot relative who had died in a crash just after the war. I asked what he flew and she said “I think Camels”. I said thank you but hoped he was checked out on jets.

Google Henry Fox Russell.

After reading John Farley's fascinating story above, it reminded me of the time I was flying an RAAF Lincoln on a low level maritime navigation exercise over the Coral Sea. We had been airborne for many hours and the crew was tired. We were heading home for our base at Townsville. I was very weary and slipping the co-pilot into the left seat I went down the back for a 30 minute nap knowing we had a reliable navigator.

We had been cruising at 1500 feet over the sea for the whole trip and the sun was coming up on the horizon. It was damnably uncomfortable between the main and rear spar using my parachute pack as a pillow. The noise of four Merlins was quite soporific and I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

I don't know for how long I was asleep but something woke me and clear as a bell I felt impending danger and quickly scrambled over the main spar to get up front. I then realised both the signaller and navigator were slumped over their desks asleep. The co-pilot in the captain's seat was asleep as well. I saw we were in IMC (fog) at 1500 feet. By now I was standing in the aisle next to the captain's seat and was able to lean over the sleeping co-pilot, disconnect the autopilot and haul back on the control column while at the same time pushing all four throttles and pitch levers to climb power. Within seconds we were out of the top of the fog into sunlight.

Ten miles dead ahead was Palm island with its jungle clad peak at 1800 ft sticking up through the low cloud and fog. . If a sixth sense hadn't awoken me a minute earlier we would have hit the island in cloud 300 feet below the top.

Great stories, please keep it up. That is what this forum is all about. As one old ornery captain told me once.

“What don't kill us, we learn from and know not to do that again, cause next time we may get lucky and kill ourselves.”

John Farley, Thank you for recounting these experiences.

Do you happen to know if any corrective action was taken subsequently, apart from the order not to fill in the rain, to make capacitance fuel gauges less susceptible to misread due to rain in the tank?

Presumably water from other sources, such as condensation, could have a similar effect?

It's always good to see you on here, John, and long may it continue.

I think we've all had that feeling, at times, that all is somehow not well, and, wherever it may come from, we ignore it at our peril.


MJ:ok:

Ps. Centaurus

I've also woken up next to a sleeping co-pilot, after weeks of constantly disrupted rosters and flight on the edge of the FTL.

Although our situation was less threatening than yours, It was a sobering experience, and reminded me just how insidious a thing fatigue is.

Mechta and Mach Jump

Thanks for your comments.

Re the T11 gauge history I have no idea. It was 58 years ago and my only aim in those days was to pass the course - not to sort out the engineering of wot I was given to fly!

JF

Mechta, water in the tank is always going to give a false reading in a capacitance system due to the two liquids having different dielectric values. The only pilot I know who had a problem with water in the tank said the gauge went to a max reading ie showing full tank.

Megan, if water in the fuel is always going to give a false reading on a capacitance gauge, I can't help wondering if this could have been a contributing factor to the Glasgow Police helicopter accident?

John Farley, fair point re passing the course!

But with modern multi sensors in each tank the error is reduced so a max indication is not always the case, the type I fly has 14 sensors per tank and even with considerable water in a tank the over reading is minimal.

Above The Clouds, whilst that may be true for fixed wing*, the helicopter (EC135) in the Clutha crash had only two capacitance sensors in the main tank and one in each of the engine feed tanks (the red warning sensors are heated wires which only show if they are in the fuel or ullage). See the tank diagram on the page linked below:

http://www.pprune.org/rotorheads/528...w-pub-148.html

*Fixed wing aircraft often need multiple sensors in the wing tanks due to dihedral and the wing section leaving sensors fully submerged or fully dry. Three partially immersed sensors are needed to show a fuel surface plane, from which a fuel volume can be computed.

Some dielectric values (at about 70°F)

Vacuum 1
Jet Fuel 1.7
Air 1.00058986
Water 80.4
Petrol 2.0

You can see the high value for water will basically cause a vast over read, being 47 times the value of jet fuel. In the case I mentioned previously, the tank was about half full, yet indicated full. A helo with single probe system.

On the subject of strange feelings which you feel compelled to follow....

As a very new R22 pilot, I was doing some aerial sightseeing with a pilot friend as a passenger. Suddenly I suddenly got a strong feeling that I wanted to go back to the airfield, now! Despite my friend's protestations that there was no rush, the weather forecast was good, we had plenty of fuel etc, I flew hell for leather (as much as one can in an R22 :) ) back to Halfpenny Green.

About two minutes after we landed a huge unforecast thunderstorm hit the airfield. It lasted for ages; had I not got back when I did, we'd probably have been sat in a field somewhere all afternoon waiting for it to pass. At least you can do that with a helicopter, but you'd always rather not.

I later told this story to the very down-to-earth flying school owner - it was their R22 - half expecting to be laughed at. I still remember his reply: "That's good. Always take note of those types of feelings and follow them. They may save your life someday".

One evening, I had arranged to take a colleague up to look at his house from the air. We had to wait for the C172 to return from Jersey which it did eventually. One of the passengers on the incoming flight was one of my old instructors and he was enthusing about the wonderful conditions despite the black sky to the east, the direction of my planned flight.

The crew of the incoming flight were having a problem locking the luggage door and I told them not to worry, I would sort it out. Fifteen minutes later, the door would still not lock and it started to rain. The rain got heavier and, eventually, sheltering under the wing was not enough, we had to get into the aeroplane to keep dry. The apron was awash and I was realising how lucky I was not to be up in the air wishing I was down there.

As soon as the rain stopped, I said to my colleague that the door would lock now, and it did. We went for a pleasant evening flight wondering why that door would not lock until the rain had cleared. Perhaps it had a better sense of preservation than I did.

Sometimes these things happen the other way round – one should never tempt fate.

Back in 1966 I was the co-pilot of a VC10 on a flight from New York to Prestwick in Scotland. The crew consisted of the captain, a wartime ex-RAF bomber pilot; a senior first officer, ex-RAF national service and short service commission; a senior engineer officer whose background I can’t remember and me - the junior first officer, ex-Hamble with all of three and a half years in BOAC. As was usual in those days, I navigated the outbound Atlantic sector and was due to sit in the right hand seat on the return.

The night before the flight in question, and this is eerie, I was discussing flying experiences with the S/F/O in a bar in New York, saying I was still wet behind the years, nothing much had ever happened to me. He described a couple of very close shaves he had had, and I clearly remember saying that I had never had any kind of emergency or anything frightening happen to me in an aircraft and that one part of me hoped it would, just so I would know how I would react and whether I could cope. I am not superstitious, but as events turned out…… I never said such foolish things ever again.

Next evening we made a normal max weight take-off from 31L, turning out over Jamaica Bay and climbing to altitude over Long Island Sound heading towards Newfoundland and the Atlantic. The night was clear, with no significant weather problems. At some stage during the climb we started to smell a hot burning smell that seemed slightly electrical, but none of us could really put our finger on it. The S/F/O went back to see if the stewardess had burnt the first class hot towels, a not unusual occurrence as they used to be warmed in the galley oven and sometimes forgotten – but that was not the cause. The smell became slightly stronger and the engineer went back to see if there was anything wrong in the galley because it really did smell electrical, and we also looked around the cockpit – but there was nothing. I can clearly remember switching off the aileron upset at 24,000ft., so I know that we were just above that altitude when it happened. Suddenly, from all around, from under the instrument panel, from above my head, from behind my seat thick smoke poured out completely blocking all visibility. Someone shouted; “Get on oxygen” the autopilot come out and the captain shouted we were on fire and must make an emergency descent and depressurise. Whether he disengaged the autopilot or it fell out I will never know. At this stage visibility in the cockpit was down to about six inches.

Then someone shouted that he thought we should kill the radio master switches. It seemed a good idea at the time. BIG MISTAKE. On the VC10 these also switched off the main flight instruments (Horizon, Compass and Altimeter).

Everything was happening very fast, I have no idea of the timescales, but the next thing I was aware of was the captain shouting that he could not see his flight instruments and the high speed warning horn going off. Whether the sequence was in that order or whether the captain shouted he could not see his instruments before the radio switches were switched off, or whether it was all at the same time I do not know. What I do know is that I put my chin on the top of the control column, pressed my forehead hard against the coaming and could just see the horizon and the other instruments, but only one at a time as I moved my head around. I clearly remember seeing the warning flags on the horizon, on the compass and on the altimeter but did not associate these with having switched off the radio master switches. What did chill me was the altimeter stuck at 18,000ft., and the VSI pointer on the stops pointing down at over 6000ft/min and thinking at any moment; ‘There is going to be a bloody great bang’ and then thinking you can’t just sit there – you have to do something. I shouted I could see my instruments and started to try to fly the aircraft too.

By this time I could see the airspeed needle somewhere on the right hand side of the ASI, I could see the VSI needle on the stops down, I could see the turn and slip (I think it must have been showing a hard left turn because in my memory all I can remember is turning the control wheel to the right) as I realised we were in a spiral dive. I shouted: “I have it, I can see my instruments” but I am sure the captain did not relinquish control, so I suppose we both flew it out. I knew I first had to get the turn needle into the centre, and only then pull back until the VSI started to come back to a normal reading, and to very carefully check the airspeed so as not to overdo it. I don’t remember the high speed warning horn stopping, but it must have. Gradually the smoke began to clear and I became aware of the S/F/O lying across the centre console and that we were climbing gently (he said later he had had his head up against the standby horizon so that he could call out the attitude, but I was totally unaware of that). He also told me the G forces had pinned him there but, again, I don’t remember any G forces.

At some stage the engineer must have switched on the radio master switches and I became aware of ATC calling us. The captain asked for an immediate return and that we would land overweight without dumping fuel because we were still convinced we had a fire somewhere on board. ATC were excellent, they had cleared all the other traffic off the frequency, they asked about the nature of the problem, and I can remember saying something about smoke and that we thought we were on fire, and they gave us vectors to 31L that were exactly right – neither too rushed nor too long, I felt so grateful to that controller. The approach and landing was normal, but at a suitably faster speed. The aircraft stopped with lots of runway to spare, and then we were surrounded by fire engines. As there was no sign of fire it was decided to taxi in without evacuating the passengers.

When on stand, the local manager and ground engineer piled onto the flight deck and there were a lot of other people around, but I do not remember much as I think I was just doing a normal shut down checklist probably taking refuge in a normal activity. The passengers were offloaded, one was a priest who made a sign of the cross and blessed us; another man was on his first flight and said he would never fly again – I don’t blame him.

Next morning I went for a walk in Central Park and have never seen the world looking so beautiful before or since. We had made lots of mistakes – BUT – it changed my attitude to aviation and I vowed never again to tempt fate.

Bergerie1

Golly what a story.

Did you ever find out what caused the smoke?

JF

First of all, thanks you for your brilliant story, Bergerie 1. Frightening stuff. What a stark difference between the flying skills displayed in that situation and the deadly instances of automation addiction or dependency that have been factors in loss of control in IMC where jet transports have crashed because their pilots simply couldn't fly.
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I was taught to fly in the RAAF. During low flying practice at 200 feet it was considered good airmanship to climb to a safe height of 1500 feet if changing over fuel tanks. Any mishandling of fuel tank selection, or air in the lines in single engine aircraft, leaves no room for error at 200 feet. One dark night over the Arafura Sea, that general SOP saved one Lincoln crew from a disaster. It happened like this:
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On 29 May 1955, my crew took part in an anti-submarine exercise in the Arafura Sea between the Darwin on the north coast of Australia and East Timor. With the exception of the navigator, Flight Lieutenant Warren Agnew, the rest of our ten man crew were non-commissioned officers (NCO’s). In April 1943, Warren “Bunny” Agnew had previously flown as a Beaufighter navigator on operations against Japanese enemy forces in East Timor during WW2. Twelve years later he was back flying in the same general area; but this time in peacetime.

Two submarines and three frigates of the Royal Australian Navy also took part in the maritime exercise which was named Operation Anzex. Our job was to hunt the RAN submarines, while their job was to attack an imaginary convoy of ships escorted by the frigates. Our search pattern took us within 50 miles of East Timor.

There were several Lincolns involved, one of which was flown by Flight Lieutenant Ricky Tate. Ricky was my instructor on Lincolns based at Townsville. He had flown Mustangs just after the war and was also a Wirraway instructor during the time I had been a student on course.

Besides wing tanks holding 2850 imperial gallons of fuel, the Lincolns were equipped with two 400 gallon long range fuel tanks hung in the bomb bay, and giving the Lincoln 14 hours endurance. The bomb bay tanks required fancy plumbing and it was the job of the duty signaller to keep an eye on the bomb bay tank gauges which could not be readily seen from the pilots’ position. When required, the signaller would be called upon by the captain to manipulate the various cross-feed cocks under the main spar next to his radio operator position. On the occasion of this flight, and unknown to the crew at the time, an oversight by the ground staff at Darwin, meant the bomb bay fuel tanks had not been not filled up.

As mentioned earlier, the RAAF considered it good airmanship if flying at low level, to climb to 1500 feet before changing fuel cocks to a fresh tank. For this reason, at midnight during his patrol off the coast of Timor, Ricky Tate increased power on all four engines and climbed to 1500 ft prior to having the signaller switching on the bomb bay fuel tanks. Without any warning, one engine stopped, quickly followed by the remaining three engines. The captain called that all four engines had failed and ordered his crew to take up ditching stations.

Meanwhile, the Lincoln rapidly became a 30 ton glider and began to lose height towards the unseen sea. Sergeant Jim Chataway, the second pilot, who had been on rest beside the signaller, leapt to his feet and headed to the cockpit where Ricky Tate was trying to restart the engines and preparing for ditching. Behind the captain's position was the navigator and radar operator. Flight Lieutenant Ray Parkin (former wartime signaller) was the radar operator. To view the radar screen the operator had a large canvas cover over his head like those old time photographers. Before Ray could emerge from under his canvas cover to take up his ditching position, he found his face un-ceremoniously pushed into the radar screen by Chataway’s size 10 flying boot.

Chataway managed to turn off the bomb bay tank switches situated on the side wall of the fuselage next to the fuel contents gauges and which were out of reach of the captain in the left hand seat. Meanwhile, Ricky Tate attempted to re-start the engines. This was extremely difficult since the engine start buttons were on the co-pilot’s side and almost out of reach from the captain’s seat. The situation being that Tate was trying to fly the Lincoln glider with his left hand on the control wheel while stretching right over to the co-pilot side and trying to press 12 buttons with his right hand. There were three buttons for each engine for starting. One for priming, one for the starter and one for the high capacity spark booster. All this was happening in pitch dark and on instruments.

Once the bomb bay fuel pumps been turned off by Chataway, each engine slowly came back into life; the last engine coming alive at 500 feet above the waves.

No one knew why all four engines had failed and it was a relieved crew that finally touched down at Darwin, two hours later. An Inquiry later revealed that the two bomb bay fuel tank contents gauges were unserviceable with their needles stuck at full on the gauges.

When the ground staff went to fill the fuel tanks prior to the flight, they first checked the fuel gauges in the cockpit. On seeing the bomb bay tank gauges indicating full capacity, they decided the tanks must have already been filled. In fact, both tanks were empty, and the engines had failed when air from these tanks was drawn into the system by the bomb bay fuel tank switches.

The RAAF general advice on climbing to a safe height if fuel tank selections were needed while low flying, proved to be a wise policy.

As a humorous postscript to a serious story, I should add that the signaller had been true to the Annals of the Service. Later, over beers in the Darwin Sergeants Mess, he said he knew something was wrong when through his tiny observation window he saw the exhaust glow from one engine fade followed by a second engine. Then silence; apart from the whistling of air past the gliding Lincoln.

When he heard the captain ordering the crew to ditching stations, the signaller stayed at his post to tap out an SOS with his Morse Code key. He then locked down the key which sent out a steady signal to HF stations listening on his frequency. Then in his signaller’s log, he found time to scrawl the words “All engines failed – ditching – ****s are trumps”.
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JF,
It was air-conditioning smoke. The VC10 did not use bleed air but had mechanically driven blowers on each engine. A gear box seal in the number 4 blower failed dumping all the gearbox oil into the compressor part of the blower where it was instantly vaporised. Fortunately the smoke, though very thick, was non-toxic and non-irritant otherwise we wouldn't have lived to tell the tale.

The flight engineer managed by feel to dump the cockpit air supply (see:- IFR conditions on the flight deck

It is interesting after such an event to compare memories. No-one really knows the overview and each of us had peculiar snapshots of bits of what happened.

What I do know is that that incident made me obsessive ever after about trying to know every facet of the aircraft I was flying.

Centaurus.

Thank you for another fascinating story.

Bergerie1

Thank you for the info.

I think many of us would be with you on that.

Content removed

See, John F. You really started something when you got this thread going. Old farts like me come in spinner with our stories.
During our training at No 1 OTU at RAAF Base Williamtown in 1953 we went straight on to Mustangs for gunnery, rocketry, formation stuff and all that.
The course included one hour of night flying in the Mustang.

Two courses earlier, one "student" (he was a Sergeant then but became an Air Marshal eventually) lost control as he got the tail up in the take off run. I am not certain of this but I believe he tried to force the tail up in the Mustang to get a quicker view of the runway during the early part of the take off roll and was slow to contain the ensuing swing. He left the runway and went through trees shedding the wings on the way. He was unhurt but the Mustang was a write-off.

Months later I was on course and was briefed for our night flying. I think there was about five Mustangs flying that night. We were briefed to climb to 5000 ft and do a patrol up and down the coast for half and hour then return to the aerodrome and do some circuits (touch and goes).

The night take off in the Mustang was no fun as the glare from the Merlin exhaust stacks a few feet in front of the pilot affected vision and because of the long nose you could only see one flare in front of you on either side until you got the tail up. If you switched on the landing light which was situated in the wheel well its beam reflected off the propeller arc straight back into your eyes. If you were a short-arse like me there was a great incentive to get the tail up quickly so you could see where you were going.

The bloke that had pranged his Mustang on his night take off a few months earlier was a six footer and even he couldn't stop the swing with his long legs. In my case I had the choice of raising the pilots seat and seeing over the top earlier but then lacking the long legs could only get partial rudder on -or - lowering the seat and getting more rudder at the expense of forward vision until the tail was up. I have always believed the Mustang was built for six-footers. I needed a cushion behind my back to get full rudder control.

Anyway, I kept straight on my first take off at night and soon reached 5000 ft and went on patrol. I was quickly conscious of heat coming from the instrument panel on the left side and found it extremely uncomfortable. Even though I was wearing flying gloves my left wrist was hurting because that was where the throttle was and I couldn't afford to take my hand off the throttle. I thought I had better get on the ground quickly because I was concerned that maybe a fire was going to start up.

After rejoining the circuit I landed safely and after switching off, reported the problem. An airman shone his torch towards the area where I explained the heat was coming from and said "You had the cockpit heat lever full on". With only a few hours on Mustangs I didn't know the cockpit layout all that well and one knob I didn't know about was the position of the cockpit heat lever. I felt such an idiot. But it was a good excuse not to go out and complete the mandatory touch and goes as I was dreading those

I wrote about the VC10 smoke experience for two reasons. (1) Because, although John Farley started it by describing an inexplicable feeling which made him take quick and decisive action which probably saved his life, my story also had eerie overtones. How likely was it to have a very nasty experience so soon after discussing in a bar the wish to test myself? And then having a nasty experience the very next day! (2) I will now follow it up with some lessons learned.

I think they were these. On the plus side, I had discovered I could act rationally in extremis, and that I found comforting. On the minus side, I knew we had done lots of things wrong. Our response, I believe, was a throwback to a previous type where the radio racks were in the flight deck and one of the immediate actions to stop electrical smoke was to kill all the radios. We all should have known better.

For myself, I vowed never to be found wanting again. I read avidly, I read manuals, I asked questions of instructors, I tried to find out as much as I could about flying - I wanted to know the derivation of everything. And it was probably that which propelled me towards a whole career in training and flight management.

The first lesson for me, was don’t rush into action too quickly, stop, think, analyse and only then do something. I know you can’t always just sit on your hands, but in most emergences there is usually time to pause and analyse before leaping into action. The next lesson was to know much more about the aircraft and its systems. Switching off the radio master switches not only isolated the radios but also disabled the main flight instruments and the autopilot, leaving only the ASI, VSI and turn and slip. That action, more than anything else, turned a minor incident into a near accident.

The more I continued to fly the more I became interested in why people make mistakes and what were the real causes of accidents. So much was just put down to pilot error, which at the superficial level is true, but the really interesting bit is to try to find out why human beings make mistakes. Remember, this was back in the 1960s/70s when training departments viewed mistakes as heinous crimes and not as learning opportunities. I read up on the psychology of visual perception and found out how easy it is for the human animal to misperceive and be misled by visual illusions. I read up on stress and fear to find out more about why and how humans react the way they do and how human perception narrows down as stress and workload builds up. I read the various books on human error and how we are all prone to false hypotheses – and that for me was the really interesting one. If something happens and you accept a false hypothesis, and you are under stress, it is very probable that you will continue to act upon that hypothesis and not be able to change it. You will then carry out a set of actions which may well be the right ones for the hypothesis but not appropriate for the actual situation.

So I came to accept a set of rules which I tried to inject into instructor courses and training routines, I think they are these:-

1. Modern aircraft are easy to fly, they are very reliable and have good handling characteristics, therein lies the danger. It is all too easy to be unprepared for the rare occasions when it all goes wrong and you really have to fight for your life.

2. Most events do not require instant action. The ones that do are regularly practised on the simulator so that they become routine. Such things as rejected take-off, engine out after V1 and wind shear recovery are good examples where an instant and correct response is required.

3. For all other events, there is usually time to assess the situation. This is absolutely vital because it is imperative to avoid the false hypothesis and to embark on the wrong course of action.

4. Know your aircraft. A good knowledge of the manuals, where to find information, how the aircraft works and what the systems do and how they do it saves time when you have to do things in a hurry, giving you more time to think.

5. If you are to assess the situation correctly you need to shed workload and buy time, therefore hand over control to the other pilot and make maximum use of the autopilot.

6. Be like a doctor. Observe the situation, diagnose the problem and then prescribe the correct checklist. Remember that the checklist is the best compendium of actions available to you, it has been thought out by people who really do know what they are talking about (the manufacturer, test pilots, the CAA, your own airline) and they will have done so in the peace and quiet of the office when there is plenty of time to think. Remember also that for every item in the check list someone may have died for it. So follow the checklist. It is also the means of coordinating the crew.

7. Now comes the difficult bit, when do you chuck the checklist out of the window? Well, if it is imperative to get on the ground ASAP (it is on fire and likely to fall apart at any moment) all aircraft are still like Tiger Moths. Even in a modern jet transport you only have to slow up to around 240kts and stick some flap out, slow up a bit more (say to 180kts) and stick some more flap out, put the gear down, stick down landing flap and then stick it on the runway. You won’t have gone far wrong – the other bits are not essential – EXCEPT – you must remember to de-pressurise before landing otherwise you won’t be able to open the doors and evacuate the aircraft.

8. ABOVE ALL, GUARD AGAINST THE WRONG HYPOTHESIS.

I have been known to say this to my passengers. Possibly I shouldn't.

John Farley started this thread by talking about overwhelming feelings that have no rational explanation but which should not be ignored. This little story is about remaining totally aware of one’s surroundings and noticing all those little tell-tale factors which give rise to uneasy feelings that need investigating. It is certainly not rocket science.
Some years ago, back in the late 1970s, I was the captain of a VC10 taxiing out for take-off from Entebbe, bound for London, at near maximum weight. The airfield is 3,780ft above sea level therefore there was not much margin for error. As we taxied out I gradually became aware that something was not quite right, and then it dawned on me that the grass, which fortunately was fairly long, was all leaning the wrong way. Needless to say the windsock was a tattered rag and of no use at all.
I asked the co-pilot to ask the tower what the wind was and they confirmed it to be the same as the one we had used for our take-off calculations. I asked the others on the flight deck what they thought and we all agreed that the wind we had been given had to be wrong. We asked ATC again and got the same answer. So I stopped the aircraft, put the parking on, and told them we would hold position on the taxiway until we had sorted it out. There then followed a long ‘discussion’ with the tower controller who was eventually persuaded to inform us that the anemometer had been broken for several days and the wind we had been given was three days old!
So each of us made an assessment of the wind direction and speed – we did it independently and wrote it down so that we would not influence each other. Then we averaged the result, re-did the take-off calculation and told the tower controller we would be taking off in the opposite direction. He was not best pleased with this but allowed us to do so when we informed him we would be filing an air safety report when we got to London.
Just one small example of how necessary it is to keep one’s antenna well tuned all the time – especially in Africa!

This is the best thread on PPRuNe. I'm sad that there's no heart for a post icon.

John (Farley), whilst on a visit to Boscombe Down many years ago, I was told a tale of a USMC Harrier on a carrier which had an 'uncommanded roll' problem for which you were flown out to test it. If you can remember this occurrence, maybe everyone would be interested in hearing the story if it's true.

Definitely the best thread on PP. John Farley, Centarus, and Bergerie, those were the days!

My adventures - mostly all alone, so Captain of my fate....

First lesson, don't panic! and second lesson, don't necessarily believe the gauges. And Third, most important, if the aircraft is right side up and still airborne, you have more time than you may think to decide on the correct action or NO ACTION.

Cutting over the gulf of Florida, enroute to Tampa, at 11,000 feet alt. in a rented clapped out C172, I enjoyed the company of an enroute controller, who noticed I was straying from the intended flight path, and asked if there was a problem/
I replied actually, I may have a problem with fuel. One dial said full, one said empty, as both wing tanks should be feeding the engine, they should both drain down more or less in sympathy.

"Do you want to declare an emergency?" asked the controller, hopefully...

"Well, not just yet" I replied. The controller asked if I would like to be vectored to the nearest airport (not all that near, but never mind), being Tallahassee, the Florida State Capital.
I agreed to this suggestion. The controller then instructed me to DESCEND to 3,000! !
"NEGATIVE" I said, "If I am going to be flying a glider I want to start from as high as possible!"

Taking this on board, the controller then told me that he had cleared the airspace for me enroute to Tallahassee from 11,000 right down to the ground. All right! So I advised him when I had the airfield in sight, was transferred to tower, descended and landed straight ahead, to be met of course by all the emergency vehicles, and then taxied to the pumps...

Of course it was not a wasp nest in the fuel tank air vent after all, only the dials telling lies again.

Reading Mary Meagher’s post reminds me of how much we pilots owe to others, in particular, those on the ground who help and guide us in the air – the ATCOs. They really are the pilot’s best friends; our other crew members, even though they are not in the aircraft with us. I guess most of us who have flown have reasons to thank them, I know I do.

But there are also times when it was necessary to be very cautious, as at Entebbe in my last post. Flying in some parts of the world one had to take the initiative regardless of the ATC clearance. Those who flew in Africa will remember the blind broadcast procedure on VHF after each position report, requiring a constant listening watch for aircraft that might be in the same place, at the same time and at the same altitude, and then having to do one’s own ATC by climbing or descending 500ft in order to maintain safe separation. This was particularly so during the Hadj, when there was undeclared east/west traffic crossing the north/south routes between Europe and the rest of Africa. I wonder how many unknown near misses there were in the middle of the night before TCAS.

And despite the excellent ATC in most parts of the world, there were times when it was necessary to disagree with the controller and refuse a clearance. Not an accident, nor even a close call, but two occasions when constant vigilance proved its worth. There was the time in Montego Bay, when following the clearance would have meant boring a hole in hills. I forget the exact safety altitude, it is all so long ago. But the take-off clearance for our departure to New York required us to take-off, turn north, and then come back south over the NDB at 3000ft because there was another aircraft inbound from the north at 4000ft. Naturally we declined and stayed on the ground until he had landed.

Then at Jeddah, bound for Abu Dhabi, we were held down below our safety altitude heading towards the mountains because an inbound aircraft was coming in above us. It was not long after ATC there had started using radar, I don’t know what the controller was doing – perhaps he was new to it all. I said we would continue on track for xx miles and then, regardless of what he wanted we would either climb or turn back to the field but we would definitely NOT be accepting the clearance to continue eastbound.

As I have said, neither of these instances were close calls, and neither was it rocket science to decide what to do. I recount them because, once again, they demonstrate the need for eternal vigilance. I am sure many other PPRuNers have had similar experiences.

Just because they had radar did they think to train the controllers how to use it? I've seen controllers with radar simply watching the traffic and waiting until they cross before they issue climb/descent instructions. Nobody had taught them to vector the traffic so the tracks did not oppose.

How to get lost...
 

Sorry, this is a long one!

Many years ago when I was young and stupid I was lucky enough to be flying the Phantom FG1 (or F4K if you prefer), which was the version designed to be operated by the RN as well as the RAF. It had a few things that the FGR2 did not (like a slotted stabilator) but it was also missing a few bits and pieces that the FGR2 had. These were minor things like an HF radio, any form of inertial navigation, and an internal battery. The nav kit consisted mainly of a TACAN and an Air Position Indicator; the API required a starting position, a wind vector and a healthy supply of cheese or other food for the mouse that apparently worked the inside of the black box. The battery could present an interesting problem - at least until we had a mod with an emergency version - as a double generator failure put out all the instrument and flood lighting until you could get the RAT on line (below 1.1M/515kts) by braille. Fortunately, the event I offer for your amusement happened in daylight.

We were sent off as a pair one very windy Sunday morning (OK weather but 25-30 kts surface wind) as part of a maritime exercise. We were told the fleet was operating off the Shetlands, there was a tanker for us, and that there was a strong westerly jetstream of about 180kts. We were in 3-tank fit, so had 22000 lbs fuel, enough for about 2.5 hours if we were careful, though of course we had a tanker so anything up to 7 hours was on the cards. Off we went, straight up to FL250 and out towards the Shetlands where we started talking to the controlling ship good and early to avoid the usual problem of being shot down by the Navy before we could take part in its defence. The duty director sent us off in another direction for our CAP, where two things happened quite quickly. First, we ran into thick and un-forecast cloud (the brief was for light cirrus) and secondly we lost visual with our wingman, so we sent him to a new position about 10 miles away so we could operate without bumping into each other. All seemed to be well, though the TACAN had resolutely refused to play since its (satis) pre-flight test; the mouse was obviously satisfied with its meal as the API information gave us a sensible lat/long which tallied with my trusty navigator's MDR plot.

We spent some time on CAP, 4 minute legs based on the API position and orientated down threat (south). I even remembered to allow some drift for the jetstream and briefed my nav accordingly. The tanker came up on freq and we sent our wingman off as he had less fuel than us, while we stayed on task to protect our nautical chums from the marauding Cold War hordes.
Some time after that, things went a little quiet and, though we could still hear our wingman, he did not seem to hear us. No matter, a break in the cloud meant we could anchor our CAP over the islands (obviously the Shetlands) that appeared below. And there we stayed, not talking to anyone (and no HF to help either) but quite happy about what we were supposed to be doing.

And then after a while I got that feeling. We had planned on starting our recovery to Leuchars with 7000 lbs, ample for the range we were at, fuel burn of 100 lbs/min, wind, diversion fuel etc. I don't know why, other than a strong sense that we needed extra fuel, but I decided to add 4000 lbs to the plan and told the nav we would start recovery next time we pointed towards home. Which is what we did. After about 5 mins on the home leg I asked the nav to give us a squirt of ground mapping (AN/AWG-11, multi-mode radar that had been in pulse doppler for almost the whole trip so we could see low-level targets). 100 nm range scale, nothing to be seen, 200 nm range, blank again. No Scotland anywhere in sight, even when we turned onto 270. So I asked a very simple question: "Where are we, G*****?" His answer was equally simple: "I haven't got a ******** clue!" He agreed with my next statement, which was simply "So we are lost, then."

Grabbing a passing straw to swing on, I suggested that maybe we had drifted with the jetstream as far as the Faroes, and it was those islands we were over. Anything being worth a shot, we turned onto a south easterly heading and this time the ground mapping showed some returns about 180 nm away. I enquired politely whether they were actually ground returns and was informed that they were indeed. That was excellent news. I then asked if the returns were Scotland-shaped. As I suspected when I asked the question, they weren't!

I remember just how strangely calm I felt when I pointed out that (a) we were lost, (b) there was no point trying to work out where we were because we were clearly nowhere near where we were supposed to be, (c) we were not talking to anyone on any of the published frequencies and (d) the only things we had going for us were some extra fuel, a radar and some ground returns. The plan was to fly towards the strange land-mass showing on the radar, let down over the sea if possible (using said radar to prove we were sea-side), find an airfield and land, or find a suitable road for landing if we couldn't find an airfield, or part company with the aircraft over the coast if none of the above worked. The 3 external tanks would be jettisoned when we hit 6000 lbs remaining, to give us some extra time.

So we wandered in a gentle descent towards the Land of Wherever, wearing a 7700 squawk and sending out PAN calls (should have been a MAYDAY really...) on 243.0 as we didn't have VHF either! Having asked the nav to read through the pre-meditated ejection and tank jettison drills, I watched as the fuel counter ticked through 7000 lbs and was just starting to wonder how much fun it would be to drop the tanks when our 7th PAN call was answered by Bremen Approach. Bremen?!! WTF etc... This was followed by another but very welcome voice telling us we were 60 miles on the centreline at Karup (Denmark) and asking if we would like to come and land. Oh, yes please. The 2000 ft wind was 270/40, we might just make it back to Leuchars or we might not, and there was a slight confidence issue with all the components of the nav system including the big pink bit in the back cockpit. Best land, coffee, refuel etc. Good plan. We turned our aircraft round at Karup, talked to the HQ (the overdue action had started but was turned off when our PAN was heard) and headed home VFR in as straight a line as we could manage.

On investigation it turned out that our API had been adjusted with a hammer and drift or similar and that a piece of swarf had clogged one of the wheels, which must have upset the mouse quite a lot. Range was OK to start with, but the East/West bit was total nonsense. It seems that the jetstream had actually drifted us onto the Norwegian coastline (the islands we had anchored over) and that the drift we applied to allow for it had tracked us down the North Sea outside the mapping range of the radar.

As for repercussions, we didn't even get to do the Axminster shuffle (there's just culture for you) but the nav did get to spend quite a long time talking to the nav leader about MDR plots, fixing cycles, derived winds and a lot of other stuff I didn't recognise. And I learned that when you get those feelings, it's best not to ignore them!

DF Bearings?
 

My late stepfather was 156 Squadron Signals leader appx mid to late 43. He'd been given a signallers log to verify as the lad had done a gud un bringing a battered a/c home with a wounded nav and air bomber. Bearings taken/times etc all added up and words like 'decoration' were being bandied about.


Trouble was a lump of flak had severed the connection between the loop and receiver.


The signaller swore that he'd taken those bearings.......discuss!

One for 'The Twilight Zone' perhaps?

Superb thread, thank you Sir John Farley for starting it.

To come back to your initial " hinch" paranormal theory. I never felt this in my carreer but in fact the opposite :In flying recalling the few mishaps I had , it was always when I felt totally realaxed and sure all was well that " Sh@t happenned ". Not sure if it is me , but it occurred to me far more times to be pure coincidence.

In ATC , every controller will tell you that incidents mostly always occur right after a peak busy session , when you calm down and start to relax. But that is another story.

On the wind passed by ATC by TWRs : Remember that the controller can only give you what he reads on his dispay or on a piece of paper given to him/her by met people. This s not necessarily the real wind outside .

Anecdote : In a large international airport in a large Country in Africa served by all European and some US airlines, the airport Anemometer was ( maybe still is ) broken, so the wind you get on the R/T by the TWR controllers is the one of the METAR issued by the met office downtown and updated every 30 minutes.. and 90% of the time the info is not far from the reality. It is when you get to land in the 10% that it becomes critical.

And this is not only an African Problem, re-visit the report on the crash of the Air France A340 in Toronto , part on the wind info passed to the crew during its APP...

Some years ago I had an assignment flying as Flt Mech full time out of Luxembourg with a 747 freighter. I spent a lot of time in the upper deck bunks as I would do round trip to places like Taipeh or Jo,burg. One night I was sound asleep in my bunk I suddenly woke up with a start - we have had a hydraulic failure. I went to the cockpit and had a look at all the hydraulic indications,which were fine. I told the F/E what had happened,we had a laugh at it then #3 system low pressure light illuminated,as I later found the pump had failed totally.I have no explanation why this happened,in a 45 year career nothing like this had ever happened before or since.At the time it left me a little nonplussed.

bc

I had somewhat the same experience one day in a DC-3. We had flown into Austin, Texas from Oklahoma City with a group of employees that were given a weekend holiday at a lake resort near Austin.

After all the passengers left I had a funny feeling about the right engine, nothing I could put a finger on, but something was bugging me. So I told the guy that was the co-pilot that I was going to start the right engine.

I got back into the cockpit, engaged the right engine starter and nothing happened. The props did not move, the starter had gone out. So I called my mechanic (engineer) in Oklahoma City, told him to grab a spare starter off the shelf and head for Austin as soon as he could.

He got in that night, replaced the starter the next day, which worked, then he had a nice holiday weekend with us as well.

To this day I cannot explain this and nothing like this happened to me again.

We may call it 6th sense, I prefer calling it a very good sense of observation. One that goes a little beyond the understanding we have "on the spot"

Sometime when something doesn't quite fit the bill, our brain start triggering alarms before we even realise why.
Then we get uncomfortable, and then if we are smart enough we will play it on the safe side. A lot of good examples in this topic about that.

But I cannot pin point the actual alarm trigger's reasons in those case. So I'm bringing a story from a Formula One Pilot and what happened to him during a race.
Everything went very fast (as expected there) A bad accident hidden by an incoming turn just happened.
He said that he started to slow down before this turn for no apparent reason! Beside a bad feeling. It saved him a crash on the wreckage.

This feeling could have been triggered by his sense of observation beyond the race track. He probably saw in the corner of his eyes all the spectators usually seated in tribunes starting to stand up to get a better view of the accident... Why are they doing that???... Something is wrong.... And slowing down before realizing why.

The more experienced in a particular field you are, the more advanced those "alarm triggers" would happen there.










And then there is conpilot...Or bcgallacher screwing up my theory :p

Your theory is correct in normal circumstances - in a long career,from time to time after doing a pre-departure inspection I have felt uneasy and gone back again and found something not right. I think that the brain carries a picture of what is expected to be seen,notices a difference and gives the feeling of unease,prompting another look. That is about as simple as I can make it. As far as the hydraulic failure incident is concerned that was a one off.I believe it was just a coincidence as there could be no way that I could have sensed an imminent failure. A failing pump does not make a noise or any other indication,I was sound asleep behind a curtain at the rear of the upper deck. The only other time I have been able to forecast a systems failure is when on a couple of occasions I have observed F/Es doing stupid things that were bound to give problems.

I have a rule of two. If two things go wrong in any area to do with the flight before I take off I don't take off, because someone or something is trying to tell me something. I'm a fairly pragmatic person but I'm willing to accept that there are more things in heaven and earth etc.

Great stories by the way chaps, keep them coming. I have no twilight zone stories from actually piloting but I did tell my wife when we boarded a commercial flight once that something was going to go wrong. Don't know why I said it and have never said it before or since but we were struck by lightning on take off and had to dump fuel and return.

It would appear that the good guys have to get lucky every now and then!

Long may it continue - whatever it is.

JF

JF - Interesting experiences and the Holyhead connection rings bells. A Hastings en-route from Colombo to Changi was navigated by a Master Nav J M****. Near to the mid-point he called for a 90deg turn and followed it with a return to track some minutes later. On arrival at Changi, the crew checked with the RCC and discovered that there had been an opposite direction Hastings which had lost an engine and drifted down to the eastbound level. No tracking in those days so no hard evidence but ...
I was replaced as Sycamore winchman/winch Op in Aden by this same M Nav and knew him quite well, especially his ability to hypnotise people - me included!!.
Later still, the Holyhead connection, or, more particularly, Valley, when he and I were on the S&R flight at the same time for a while. During a Mess chat he mentioned that he was a member of a local white witch coven and offered me an introduction. Thank you but no thank you and off to Thorney not long after. Even after all these years (50) getting a 'handle' on these things is mentally niggling.

What a lovely thread! Here's one of mine: In the late 1990's I was asked to fly a survey team out to Murcia to carry out some vertical aerial photography for land survey work. It was when digital photography was in its infancy and very expensive involving the fitting of a "digital back" to a conventional 35mm film camera. The digital photos obtained were stored on miniature hard drives and the contents of these were downloaded at night onto a portable computer which was fitted with a CD writer at X1 (Coo!).

Anyway, the first two days at Murcia were uneventful: we were granted permission to operate in the morning when the Spanish military were in control so we took off at about 10.00 and, following the guidance of the team's portable GPS routed out to the selected area. Here I flew a special search pattern to enable them to obtain their high definition digital photographs of the land in question. We returned after about 2.5 hours flying with a pile of miniature hard drives for downloading. The aircraft, a Partenavia, was then refuelled ready for a repeat of the exercise the following day.
All went well for the first three days then the weather changed. The sky changed from blue to grey, as did the Mediterranean, the wind got up and the rain came down in buckets. There was no flying and all we could do was to spend the days in our hotel, eating, drinking and watching Spanish bullfights on the telly. Eventually the weather cleared, we returned to the airport and found our Partenavia firmly tied down as we had left it so I proceeded with a thorough pre-flight check. Everything appeared O.K. and on checking the fuel, the tanks were still full as we had left them. A mere drop or two of water was spotted in the sight glass as I drew off a sample from each tank to check it. Once again the flight progressed without incident and on return, as usual the "Gazoline Senor" appeared with his little tanker of Avgas to fill up our tanks which he did - and as usual the amount we uploaded agreed with the number of hours we had been airborne.
The following day, the exercise was repeated: I checked the aircraft as usual, the tanks were full, the oil levels were correct and I proceeded to take the fuel samples. The starboard tank produced a few drops of water which failed to appear on the second sample so I walked around to the port tank. I filled the sight glass and was delighted to notice no evidence of any water droplets at all - well it had been a pleasant evening and warm night.
I was just about to discard the sample onto the tarmac when a thought occurred to me: How do I know that the sample is indeed avgas? I smelt it and it smelt faintly of petrol. I discarded it and took another sample - once again totally clear. Once again I smelt the sample - faint avgas wiff, then I thought - if I pour it over my hand it will rapidly evaporate and chill my palm. I poured, my palm got colder, but I was a little mystified by the tiny bubbles which appeared, drifting across my palm. I took another sample - still clear, but was that avgas smell strong enough? I thought. I was in a bit of a quandry and had no idea why I was making such a fuss. Anyway I proceeded back to the starboard tank and took a further sample. On sniffing, the avgas smell was much stronger so I returned to the port tank drain and took yet another sample for comparison. I was sure the smell was not as strong and there were also those little bubbles which drifted across the palm of my hand when I poured the waste fuel over it. Why? I took yet another sample and was rewarded with the reason why: the sight glass was full of water droplets in the avgas which rapidly settled to the bottom giving me half a sample glass of water and half a glass of avgas. The smell of avgas was much stronger now and when I poured it over my hand the chilling sensation was much stronger. A couple more sample glass fulls and the avgas was running pure and uncontaminated - so we could go flying.
Clearly the rain previously had entered the tank and lain on the bottom. During the manoeuvring during the previous days flying this water had entered the drain chamber at the bottom of the tank (below the point at which fuel is taken off for the engine) and there was so much of it that mistaking it for fuel was quite an easy one to make. To this day I have no idea why I was so insistent on making all those extra checks but at least it enabled our survey trip to complete without incident.

Like so many others, I seem to have a guardian angel watching over me and that is not the only time he has helped during my flying career.


P.P.